"Here, Grit!" called Dick.
His pet, after a moment of hesitation, and a longing look at the shut door, came to him limping.
"The brutes!" exclaimed Dick, as he saw where his dog had been kicked. "I've a notion to have them arrested."
"It will only make a lot of trouble, and delay us, to testify against them," said Paul. "Let's get out of here."
"I guess that's best," assented Dick. "They tried to keep my dog, though. But you were too much for 'em; eh, Grit?"
The bulldog nearly turned himself inside out trying to wag his short tail, and fawned about his master and the latter's chums.
A crowd had collected at the alley entrance, and through it the boys pushed their way, the assemblage giving respectful room to Grit, who was in no gentle humor. It was plain that the stablemen, seeing a valuable dog, had enticed Grit into the barn—no hard task, since he was fond of horses—and had tried to prevent Dick from recovering his pet.
But all's well that ends well, and soon the trio, with Grit on the seat of honor in front, were speeding to the outskirts of the town, where the auto was drawn to one side of the road, and preparations made to spend the night.
They were off early the next morning. Cleveland was their next big city, and in accordance with Dick's plan they changed their route slightly, taking seldom-traveled roads to throw off any spies whom Uncle Ezra might send after them.
Shortly before noon something occurred which nearly put an end to their journey. They had come through a bad stretch of roads and had ascended a steep hill, at the other side of which, according to a local guide, began a good highway.